Holmes and his Watson
by xIrelandx
Summary: John x Sherlock. Part of the 30 Day OTP Challenge.
1. Chapter 1

He's not used to it like he figures he should be at this point. But then, he still wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming with the vision of Sherlock falling imprinted behind his eyes. And when he wakes up, Sherlock is there, sitting in a chair in the corner of John's room, always watching. And some days, this annoys John beyond belief. How dare he just sit there and watch John, as though nothing has happened? As though there had been no three-year gap? As though Mary wasn't in a hospital, dying, as Sherlock watched John intently from the corner of his room?

John had moved back to Baker Street only to avoid looking at things that would remind him of Mary. He still hadn't forgiven Sherlock, and Sherlock knew that. Sherlock hadn't even tried to explain why he did it, why he faked his death, and John knew it must be killing him. Yet Sherlock didn't let it show. His eyes followed John from room to room, and his body did too. He was beginning to remind John of the stray dog he'd adopted as a kid – a bulldog puppy, who waddled gracelessly after him no matter where he went. The dog probably would have gone to the end of the world by John's side. Sherlock would too, if John asked him.

There's a part of John, though, that knows he can't ask that of Sherlock. Even though Sherlock's the one who left, the one who let himself fall off the building, who spread his arms and made John watch as sped toward his death, John knows that there are things he's said and done that are unforgivable. He's seen the parallels in his head by now – having rows with the chip 'n pin machines in Tesco, translated into 'it sat there and I shouted abuse,' morphed into calling Sherlock a machine and storming out of Bart's, to Mrs Hudson, and inevitably arriving back too late.

And he knows that there are other things, too. Things that cut too deep to ever be healed. Things that lie between them and remain unspoken because Sherlock doesn't know how to approach them and John is too afraid to. John knows that one day, everything will break down and re-form. That's how chemistry and physics and biology work, and he only hopes their psychology isn't too fragile to withstand the tempest. John sees things in Sherlock's eyes and knows he can't possibly ask him to come with him to visit Mary in the hospital, can't ask him to be there as a vicar officiates their marriage. Asking Sherlock to be there would be a cold and blatant slap in the face: Look at how I've replaced you.

But Sherlock comes with him anyway. John's hardly spoken a complete sentence to him since he's arrived back in the world, yet Sherlock follows John to the places normal people would keep private. As the vicar guides John and Mary through the recitation of the vows, John can feel Sherlock and Mary exchanging a glance. He knows they're both thinking, 'are the replacement, or am I?'

John feels terrible because he knows the answer. Mary is just another lost cause he's clung onto to keep from drowning.

When John gets the call from the doctor, he heads out without alerting Mrs Hudson or Sherlock, but they both come anyway. John is jittery, his leg bouncing in time to a rhythm no one can hear. Maybe it's the beating of his heart. He clenches his eyes through most of the process. The grieving, the will-reading, the funeral. The entire month goes by in a whirlwind of closed eyes, and John tries to pretend as though none of this is happening. He's losing his grip on reality again, and he's not sure anymore if he regrets Mary or Sherlock more. He's doubting his purpose as a doctor, as a person, when he feels fingers slip between his own. They could be Mary's. They could be Sherlock's. It's all the same to him at this point. He's just holding on for dear life.


	2. Chapter 2

Objectively, Sherlock knows there's nothing he can do to help John. Because of how his personality works, John is convinced that Mary's death is his fault. Sherlock doesn't comment on it. He knows that telling John that the idea alone is ridiculous will make things worse, and things have only just now started to get better.

Sherlock manages to convince Lestrade to send some smaller, one-man cases to John. He's not sure if it's because Lestrade is also John's friend and wants to do what's best for him, or if he honestly believes John's deduction skills have gotten better (they really, really haven't). Either way, John is enjoying working these small puzzles out on his own, although at first he was suspicious.

'Are you going to leave, again?' John asks Sherlock over breakfast. They're back to their usual routine: sitting at their back-to-back desks, Sherlock browsing the paper while John eats his eggs. Mrs Hudson is in the flat too, but if John notices she's toddling around in the kitchen he doesn't say anything. They're both aware of her watching them, newly-cleaned plate in both hands, awaiting a row.

Sherlock moves the paper so that he can look John in the eyes. That's the easiest way to let John know he's telling the truth when he says 'No.'

John doesn't drop the gaze immediately, or even after Mrs Hudson clears her throat to ask a question. John answers her and nods to Sherlock, finally breaking their staring contest by turning to his eggs.

* * *

Lestrade finally hits gold with his latest case, one that keeps not only Sherlock but John, too, up at all hours of the night. John had gone back to the practice with Sarah, went back to interim work when Sherlock reappeared (and boy, was Sarah livid about it all), and demanded John dedicate all his time to this most recent problem. 'The last thing we all need is for you to get shot – though that would teach Sherlock a lesson,' she amended.

John smiled, glad that they could have this easy friendship if nothing else. 'I suppose so, although he still hasn't told me why he did that –' John took in a quick breath, and heard Sarah on the other end do the same. '…Jumping thing in the first place,' John breathed out, all at once.

'Have you talked to him about it?' Sarah asked.

John shook his head. 'I don't really think there's a right way to approach that sort of thing, but the tension must be killing him. He loves to show off.'

Sarah snickered. 'Well, Doctor Watson, off you go to catch the bad guys. And I expect to read all about it on your blog tomorrow.'

John raised his right eyebrow at the phone. 'Y'think we'll be done that quickly?'

'Now that Sherlock's got you to help him? Of course I do.'

John blushed. 'Ta, Sarah.'

'Not a problem.'

They hung up.

* * *

It wasn't so much that their thief was one of Sherlock's 'audacious criminal masterminds' as it was that the man was hard to touch. The bloke was part of a very prominent family, went to a prestigious university, and was now head of high-powered legal company. If his pedigree didn't scare others off and his degree wasn't intimidating, Michael's slimy words could lead him out of any situation he got stuck into. That was the real reason Sherlock had been called in on the case: what the police lacked wasn't motivation or means, but evidence.

Lestrade finally (and reluctantly) suggested the boys go undercover to get the evidence they needed. It wasn't that he was afraid of them getting hurt – John was a good shot (which Lestrade pretended not to notice) and Sherlock was adept enough at hand-to-hand combat. It was just that Sherlock is hardly the most subtle person Lestrade knows. The idea of the two going undercover at all makes Sally snort and shake her head. 'They'll be dead in five minutes, sir,' she tells him, but Lestrade tells her to shut it. Lestrde fishes out some incredibly fake moustaches for the two to wear to hide their appearances. John looks normal, but everyone gets a good look out of Sherlock's grumpy janitor face.

They're on the go in less than ten minutes, wired up in case they meet their target. Things are going fine until Sherlock makes some snide remark about the lecherous activities of one co-worker that the man overhears. They're told to stay put and so the boss can talk to them about what Sherlock has said, and a small argument breaks out. Should they make a run for it, or risk being found out? They eventually agree on the former, but not before the goon has returned with his boss and, seeing John and Sherlock's fleeing backs, slams the alarm.

The two are chase dup onto a rooftop, but there is nowhere to go from where they are. 'Should've thought of that earlier, shouldn't we?' John asks miserably. Sherlock is so busy eating his lips that he doesn't respond. There's no way to get down, or even to another part of the building. They are in so much trouble, if and when Michael finds them.

And find them, he does. There's a tussle on the roof that leads to an all-out fistfight. John is doing quite well, but Sherlock can't seem to get his bearings. Michael has him by the hair and is about to dump him off the building when John sees what's been going on in Sherlock's front.

John drops the mook he's been hitting and wrestles Sherlock from Michael's grasp. The whole ordeal takes maybe about five seconds, but John feels and sees it in slow motion. The wrestling and grappling results in Michael tripping over the edge and falling, eyes widening almost comically as he realizes what's happening to him. John hasn't managed to let go of Sherlock yet, and Sherlock, too, seems to be holding on for dear life.

* * *

Lestrade storms the building, of course, and manages to not only save the day but to make a Big Damn Hero of himself. This one case sees their friend promoted from Detective Inspector to Detective _Chief_ Inspector, and even Sherlock seems proud of this accomplishment.

'I have you lot to thank for it,' Greg comments at Yard's congratulatory get-together. Sally even smiles and joins in on the clapping, although Anderson remains grouchy in the back of the room.

Once people have deigned it appropriate to leave the two alone, Sherlock ushers John outside to a cab. 'Too noisy in there,' Sherlock explains. John thinks this may just be a cover for Sherlock's intense claustrophobia. How he can deal with it and live in such a big city should be a mystery, but John thinks it has something to do with the fact that in London (and New York, and Paris, and all those other places) you can be constantly surrounded yet still be alone – although this still doesn't explain Sherlock's aversion to the Tube.

They sit side-by-side in the cab, elbows brushing occasionally, and it reminds John of their first cab ride together, to their first crime scene. John looks over at Sherlock, who is judging John carefully but not evasively through his peripherals. John leans back into the seat, slouching, and decides it's now or never.

'So why did you jump?' he asks. His slouch angles him so that his head is now resting on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock doesn't smell at all how John thought he would – chemicals and chill and expensive aftershave. Instead he smells warm and clean and like the shampoo John has stocked in their shower. He smells like a normal human being. For the first time since meeting him, it occurs to John that just maybe, Sherlock Holmes is a normal human being, like everybody else.

Sherlock sighs thoughtfully, licking his teeth behind closed lips. John doesn't let the sound distract him from the reality of Sherlock copying his posture and letting his read rest, tentatively, on John's.

'They were going to kill you,' Sherlock's voice cuts through the mellow hum of the cab. 'Moriarty's men. They had guns trained on you, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson.' John inched his head over to Sherlock's chest, so he could better hear the beating of his friends heart. It jumped as John's body melted in with Sherlock's. Sherlock let one ungloved hand slip through John's soft hair, and he made himself count and catalogue the colours he saw to keep himself from hyperventilating. 'I couldn't make them change, John. Believe me. I tried to find a different way out… Jumping was the only way left.'

'And you didn't tell me because?' John had left the anger out of his voice, and found that it had left his heart as well. He'd spent to long being hurt and frustrated and angry that all that violence had simply left him now, and he almost knew Sherlock's words before he spoke them.

'I couldn't take that chance.'


	3. Day 03: GamingWatching a Movie

Sherlock knows it's some sort of punishment when John shows up at 221B with a six-pack of really awful beer, microwavable popcorn, and the first three _Harry Potter_ films. John's moved back to his and Mary's apartment because despite all appearances, he hasn't quite forgiven Sherlock yet. But Sherlock guesses that he deserves all this punishment – he hasn't been a stellar friend of late, and maybe if he suffers through – _dear God_ – six hours of magical nonsense, John will finally forgive him.

Sherlock is curled with on the couch, his knees up to his chest and his laptop balancing on his knees. He's typing away and ignoring the dumb movie as best as he can as it's way too obvious – _greasy haired, darkly-clothed teacher with a grudge against the kid's father, wants revenge for something the child never did. Not worth my time._ He's doing quite well, until John's movements catch his attention.

It's subtle, hardly noticeable, a minute shift in placement. But Sherlock still notices it, because it's John.

John isn't one to fold up in on himself. He's quite extroverted by nature, yet he hasn't taken his coat off. He's sitting, glaring at the screen, with his arms folded. His ankles are crossed and hidden under the coffee table. He looks like he's ready to bolt at any given provocation. He doesn't look comfortable. He doesn't look _home_.

It's then that Sherlock notices John has recently shaved. His moustache, which always looked out of place and odd on his face (_makes him look so much older_, Sherlock had thought when he'd first seen the thing), is gone. John's hair has been recently trimmed, washed, and evenly parted. His nails are clipped and even. He looks clean and recently remade. Normally, this wouldn't be a clue for any sort of thing. Except John's just had his wife die. He's been depressed since she got the diagnosis, and possibly for longer. John has made an effort today, just for Sherlock. The least Sherlock can do is to return the courtesy.

'How terribly rude of me,' Sherlock announces to the thick and tense air he's just become aware of, 'I haven't offered you a drink. Tea?'

'Bottle o'beer, if you don't mind,' John says with caution, and draws his feet into his body. He lets his hands fall down to his lap, crossing his fingers.

'Might I take your coat?' Sherlock enquires, and John looks up with curiosity as he unbuttons his coat and hands it gingerly to his friend, flatmate, whatever Sherlock is to him now.

'Sure…' John's eyes follow Sherlock's form as he neatly hangs the coat and stores it in the closet. Sherlock's not really one for beer, but social convention states that he join John in the name of social convention – especially as he's trying to get back into John's good graces. He tries to twist off the bottle caps with his hands and curses his lack of a bottle opener when they prove too tight to move by human strength alone.

'Need a hand there?' And Sherlock nearly drops the bottles on the floor, except John, as always, catches them. He smiles up at Sherlock in a most friendly way, with absolutely bedazzled eyes that Sherlock doesn't think he's seen since their first case together. No, no, since "The Great Game" – their first encounter with Moriarty. Their relationship has been tense, if Sherlock really thinks about it, since they first met Irene Adler. As if John's been protecting him from something bigger that he doesn't think Sherlock is ready for.

As per usual, John averts his eyes with that silly smile as he shakes his head at his oh-so-awkward friend.

'I don't tend to drink beer,' Sherlock comments.

'What's the occasion?' John asks. Sherlock has to think hard about his answer. He wants to say, _because I'd be lost about his blogger_, but he feels that would be crossing an invisible line. They haven't quite reached the edge of that precipice yet.

'First time for everything, isn't there?' Sherlock quirks his eyebrow when he asks. John reflects the movement, but doesn't actually voice his concern.

The two head back to the couch. When they reach it, John opens up more, back to his usual self. He kicks his shoes off under the table and lets his socked toes wiggle. Sherlock tries to copy the gestures, removing his socks as well. He scoots closer to John on the couch, fumbling clumsily. He even chokes on his first chug of beer, and John has to slap him on the back before the hacking stops.

By the end of the first movie, Sherlock is a right mess of nerves. He doesn't know to act around this new John, the one who combed his hair and shaved and trimmed and tweezered and made himself look nice all for Sherlock. Sherlock's never had a real relationship before, and he's not sure if this is what they are becoming or what they have been. Sherlock's not sure he's ready for the commitment or for the change, just that he doesn't like this layer of formality they've become shrouded in.

'Hey, it's okay,' John tells him. Sherlock only now realizes that he's been shaking slightly. In his anxiety, his left leg has been bouncing and he's been chewing on his nails. He's amazed he's not covered in beer, although he might as well be for how much he's sweating right now. John's hand is on his leg, on his thigh, right above his left knee. 'No need to panic.'

'John –' Sherlock says, but he needn't say any more than that, because John is giving him that smile and snaking that same arm over Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him in and everything is, for right now, perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's not sure why, but he feels an overwhelming annnnxiety crashing over him as he opens the door to Angelo's. He goes to put a hand on the door, but changes his mind in favour of straightening out his suit jacket. He has done this, conscoiusly, six times. He is also aware that if he runs his hands through is hair any more times, his hair will become flat and heavy with the transfer of grease from his finger tips to his locks. But still, he can't stop. He can feel his heart rate increasing way above average and he knows that if he doesn't calm down soon, he will start sweating. And he really, really detests sweating.

A loud knock on the front widow wakes him of his reverie, as John asks him through the glass if he intends to come in and sit down, or if he'd prefer to stay out and fiddle with his appearance all night. Sherlock is beyond embarrassed.

He does finally enter into the restaurant, thoroughly deserted but for the two of them. In most other places, the lack of traffic in a restaurant on a Tuesday night would seem utterly justified; but then, most places were not London. Sherlock had alarm bells going off in his mind, but he had no idea why. It was just John, after all. What was there to be wary of?

'Sherlock!' Angelo boomed as he crossed the restaurant. He had a bottle of red wine in his right hand, two wine glasses dangling from the fingers of his left. He placed the glasses on the table, one in front of each of them, as he continued to speak steadily. So nothing was wrong after all, and it was just Sherlock's imagination. 'For a minute there, we was sure you'd stood poor John up.' Sherlock snapped his head to John, expecting him to clarify that he would not have been stood up, becasue this was not a date.

John just shook his head. 'No, no, I knew you'd turn up; it was just a question as to when. Could have been half-midnight, for all I knew.' John smiled at Sherlock as he picked up his glass to get a scent of the wine.

'Alright then,' Angelo said, setting the wine bottle down on the table between them. 'I'll let the two of you think over what you'd like to order - well, I'll let Sherlock think over what he'd like to order, while I get that candle you wanted.'

Again, Sherlock's head snapped to John, expecting him to protest at the thought of a candle adornig their table. Instead, John just smiled and said, 'Thank you, Angelo.'

The alarm bells started to go off again in Sherlock's head, only this time they were buzzing like an alarm clock.

'This is a date, isn't it?' Sherlock blurted.

John was smiling pleasantly up at him, batting his eyelashes like he had during their first conversation here, nearly six years ago. 'Finally caught on, did you?' John smirked. 'Well, that's what this is...if that's what you want it to be. And if not, then we're just here as friends for diner, and the restaurant is empty because I fancied not having to put up with any more annoying people today.'

'Don't I count as annoying people?' Sherlock quipped, barely able to hear his own thoghts over the drumming of his heartbeat saying this is a date, this is a date.

'Sometimes,' John conceded. He picked up his wine glass, holding it loftily in his right hand, smiling with timidity at Sherlock. 'So,' he asked, 'to friendship?'

Sherlock eyed his wine glass before picking it up very carefully, and raising it to toast John with the soft correction, 'To us.'

* * *

Even if John wasn't forcing him to eat tonight, Sherlock would have done so willingly. It was a convetion of dates that involved food and eating, and he was unsure what he would do with himself besides.

To be honest, he had expected something to be different. He wasn't sure what, but in the past, dating had always meant change. It had meant awkward conversations, small talk, fumbling over words and keys and the intense anxiety of wondering what, if anything, he'd done wrong. And this, of course, was the exact reason Sherlock hadn't been on many dates. Things rarely ever turned out well, and even in the event that the date itself went fine the relationship soon would crash and burn.

So why wasn't John even trying to make small talk?

'Quit thinking so loud, I can hear the gears turning.' Sherlock looked away from the past he'd been twirling on his fork and up at his dinner partner.

'John -'

'There's no need for small talk, Sherlock. I was with you for a good portion of the day, and I vaguely know what you were up to with the pig's ears in the fridge and I can tell you for a fact that I don't want to hear the details of that experiment. I have seen quite enough of it already.'

'But what about your day? Don't you want to tell me how the surgery was, or something?'

John furrowed his brow. 'Do you actually want to know how the surgery was this morning?'

Without thinking, Sherlock answered 'Yes,' and found that it was the truth.

John stared at him, forked pene at the edge of his mouth. 'Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Honestly John, is it really so odd to you that I might care what your day has been like?'

'Yes,' John answered.

Sherlock looked down at his own plate trying to bite back the humiliation he felt. No, humiliation wasn't the right word. He felt...hurt. And concerned that he would ever give John the impression that he didn't care about him. 'I care quite a lot about you, John,' Sherlock said hotly.

John set his fork down. 'Don't...don't get like that, Sherlock. I didn't mean -'

'Didn't mean what? To imply that I'm heartless? Why did you invite me here tonight if you find me so cold?' Sherlock could feel the well-constructed walls he built with so much care - the ones John recklessly destroyed upon their first meeting - rebuilding themselves. It didn't matter that he maybe deserved every criticism John could lob at him. He had learned a long while ago that he had to protect himself first, and let the other party deal with his or her own aftermath. If that meant pushing John as far away from him as possible - whether physically or emotionally - then so be it.

John rubbed his eyes with both is hands, sighing heavily, and Sherlock was reminded of the ways in which wars were once fought - with each side getting its own turn, nice and orderly. Even, efficient, but ridiculous with all things considered.

'All I meant, Sherlock, was that you've never had any reason to ask. Every patient, every diagnosis, you're capable of reading in my face or my voice or my bloody shoelaces. Besides which, my day was boring. I don't even care what my day was like, and I lived it.'

Sherlock was quite embarrassed, only now realizing that he'd stood up and next to the table in his anger. John was looking up at him, hands folded, like he was pleading. And after that horrible day at St Bart's, Sherlock had made himself promise to never make John plead for anything again.

'Oh,' Sherlock said simply, and sat back down again. Both men picked up their forks and began to eat again. Slowly, Sherlock said, 'I have heard before that recounting the events of the day can be rather theraputic.'

John shook his head. 'Can be, sometimes, but let's just say it's not dinner-table material.' Sherlock furrowed his brow in cofusion, and blinked in John's direction until the other man looked up. John rolled his eyes slightly, and Sherlock understood. Indeed. Not diner-table material at all.

'So how about the weather?' Sherlock asked.


End file.
